The Sick Wife by Lost Loretta (motivational books to read .TXT) 📕

I could dive in, let go of my chains, and just start to do the things we dreamed about. All the things we planned for and spoke about every day. We created such a beautiful idea of a future that I can never seem to completely let go.

I still think about Sunday Delacroix, and sometimes I even dream about her. I dream about holding that tiny little baby in my arms, for the very first time. Her little fingers wrapping around mine. “Milla, she’s perfect,” I would say. I can imagine her tired smile, the same way she always smiled at me on video call. Sparkling eyes, creases beside her mouth… just melting my heart. Just pure happiness. “I love you, Milla,” I would whisper, while kissing her forehead.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

I blink.

Fuck. I fell asleep. Drunk and out of my mind—beside Yvette. Fuck! What did I say? She must realize that I am clueless from the look on my face.

“You were calling for Milla,” Yvette says slowly. She hits my arm and shoves me away. “My nurse Camilla? Fuck you, Gabriel! Really?”

I am too dazed and drunken to really make sense of what is happening. What I do know is that Yvette must be getting stronger, because she is able to sit up and push me entirely out of the bed, with considerable force. I stumble forward and have to grab a piece of furniture for balance. “You misunderstood me,” I try to tell her, but I can tell from the look on her face that I’m not fooling anyone.

I think about lying. I think about making up some kind of story to explain this.

“You were saying that you loved her. Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Yvette asks me, her face contorted with rage and jealousy. “My nurse, Gabriel?”

“Yes,” I answer weakly. I’m too drunk to say anything else and I just want to be honest for once. Maybe that will ease my heavy soul. “It was really difficult when you were sick, Evie. I talked to her a lot…”

“Don’t fucking make excuses!” she shouts, throwing a pillow at me. It’s funny how when someone has been really weak, you feel happy to see them being violent because it means they’re growing stronger. I almost want to celebrate every time she throws something at me.

“Milla and I got really close,” I tell my wife.

“How close? Gabe, how close?” she demands to know. “Tell me!” she shouts, throwing another pillow.

“I do love her,” I say softly, my eyes closing in my intoxicated state. I just want to go back to sleep and forget all this happened.

“Putain!” Yvette shouts. “Get out. Get the hell out, now. Take your drunk ass and go. You stink!”

“Fine,” I say, stumbling to the door. It’s past curfew, but it doesn’t really matter. I grab a half-empty bottle of white wine before heading for the door.

The streetlights pass by me in a blur as I stumble toward a park. I find a bench to sit on and take a few gulps. The scenery is beautiful. I’m overlooking the Seine, and there are trees all around. I stand up and move closer to the water, as close as I possibly can without falling in. I find an area underneath a tree that is partially extending into the river, and I sit at the roots of the tree, drinking.

When I finish the bottle, I toss it aside angrily, and lean my head back against the tree. I fall asleep there for a little bit. It’s quite lucky that I don’t fall into the river and drown. Lucky for who, I’m not exactly sure. Is it lucky for me? Possibly.

When I wake up, a few small clouds are turning pink with the sunrise. I try to stand, and find that I am still quite drunk, but possibly less than before. I am not less angry, confused, and upset. I see a few guys wearing dark clothing, gathered in the park. They look to be smoking together. I stumble toward them, without really questioning the direction of my feet.

“Hey, what’s up,” I say, still speaking English for some reason.

“Yo, man,” one of the guys says. “What do you want?”

“My wife kicked me out of the house,” I tell them. Then I see that one of the guys is eating from a bag of chips. My stomach growls. “Hey, can I have some of those chips?”

“What? No,” the man says. “I don’t know you.”

“That’s rude. I’m just a fellow human being, in need of some chips,” I explain, stepping closer to him. His buddies intervene protectively, and step forward, pushing and shoving me away from their friend and his chips.

“Give your fucking hands off me,” I say, shrugging them off. One guy tries to hit me, and I dodge his punch. I smash my head into his nose. His buddy comes at me then, and I slam my elbow into his ribcage. I get in a few good hits, and I manage to defend myself well—okay, who am I kidding? It’s not self-defense really. I came over here looking to start something… and chips.

But I’m outnumbered, five to one. Eventually, they overpower me and get me onto the ground. They proceed to beat the shit out of me, punching my abdomen and kicking my chest and face and head. I lay there, letting them do their worst.

I almost don’t care if it kills me. I almost feel like I deserve it. I’ve been such a toxic presence in the lives of people I care about. The only thing that disappoints me is that I didn’t get any chips first. That’s the real tragedy here.

I am still thinking about the chips, and my stomach is growling, while they beat me into unconsciousness. Okay, maybe I think about Evie and Milla a bit, too. And all the things I haven’t done with my life. But mostly chips.

Chapter 29

“Oh, Gabe,” Yvette says when I come home from